


Outpouring

by Howling_Harpy



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Childhood Memories, Domestic Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Pillow Talk, Post-War, Sharing a Bed, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29218047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howling_Harpy/pseuds/Howling_Harpy
Summary: Ron is the type to get philosophical after lights out.
Relationships: Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	Outpouring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [masongirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/masongirl/gifts).



> So, Masongirl has written up some very cute speirton headcanons on Tumblr, and of course I read them. I was inspired to the point of actually writing a fic based on one, so here we are!
> 
> This is just cuteness with a touch of something a bit deeper, maybe a character-study-ish. Enjoy!

It was a lovely thing to stay over for the weekend. Just letters sustaining their relationship felt inadequate, not nearly enough but also in a way making their separation feel heavier when they got a little taste of the real thing every now and then. To Carwood, reading one of Ron’s letters was a piece of heaven, but once he ran out of text and stopped hearing his voice in his mind, putting the letter down made his own empty apartment feel even emptier. 

Weekends in each other’s company were a rare treat. Ron was a training officer and lived outside the camp, but Carwood’s new job had taken him to a different state and even though they were both independent adults with plenty of private space at their disposal, they had lives apart from each other.

But every now and then, a weekend came even for a soldier, and Carwood could clear up his own calendar and drive to visit Ron. 

Friday was always tense, both of them filled to the brim with anticipation and longing that had had way too long to invent dreams and fantasies of how their reunion would go. Every time they were already tired from work, and mustering up the strength to pretend they were just regular friends in public was asking too much.

They went home together slowly. They lingered on the streets and in the doorway, pretending they were anything except what they really were, until Ron invited Carwood up to his place. It was lovelier that way, to pretend that they had just now won more time for themselves.

The pretending would stop immediately when the door closed and secured them in privacy. They made love always almost immediately, usually not even making it to the bedroom but settling on a somewhat nostalgic fumbling on the couch, half-dressed and urgent. 

After the first round they were less fierce. They spoke, said things they couldn’t say with others present, assuring each other and themselves in passing that they had missed each other, that they still longed and wanted each other as badly as before, that the yearning was equally deep.

This one certain Friday they made love on the couch, almost a habitual stop for them. Then they made love again in the bedroom, this time lasting longer, as long as they could bear to stretch it out. Things that couldn’t be said out loud or even put in writing were pressed into skin with soft lips and insistent hands. 

When they could make their legs carry again, they showered together and enjoyed each other in a much more casual, more sensual way. Those were moments that Carwood cherished as an opportunity to prove to Ron as much as to his still occasionally doubting self that this was more than lust. 

It was nothing short of love when he rubbed shampoo into Ron’s hair and rinsed it with far more care than required. It was love that moved his hands when he pressed soapy circles into his back and massaged his shoulders under the spray of hot water. And Ron loved him back, it was obvious in how he pulled Carwood into his embrace and let his hands run down the curves of his body. 

There was a shimmering warmth to it, an obviously erotic dimension in washing someone else and let them wash you in return, to touch someone so completely and everywhere, but it wasn’t sex. It was just caring, selfless and kind. 

Sometimes after the shower they made love again or at least tried to, just to prolong the night further, but usually the pent-up tension from the day and its release along with the long, hot shower made them both ready for bed. They were only approaching their thirties and already they tired so easily. Carwood thought it funny and sometimes hummed a laugh at it when he relaxed into Ron’s bed. 

He was almost asleep, truly at peace for the first time in weeks. He inhaled the scent of fresh sheets and the hint of tar that was Ron’s shampoo and let himself curl around his pillow. 

“Hey, Carwood,” Ron whispered in the darkness. “Are you asleep?”

He surely would have liked to be, Carwood thought. For a second he considered to pretend to be asleep, certain that Ron would let him keep pretending even if he did a poor job, but despite how tired he was, his curiosity got the better of him. “No. What is it?” he asked. 

“Did you know, I had a pet cactus when I was a kid,” Ron said.

For another moment Carwood was sure he was actually asleep and that this was just a very strange dream. He blinked his eyes open and cleared out the dream even though he could see hardly anything in the dark bedroom. Still, Ron seemed to be expecting an answer.

“Are we talking about a plant?” he muttered hoarsely, wondering if he had heard correctly.

“Yes,” Ron said. “I got it for my birthday. A succulent, mother called it. It was small and spiky, a desert plant.” He paused. “I just thought it had a lot of attitude, even though it was a plant. I liked it so much I called it Augustus and tied a ribbon around its pot.” 

“That’s cute,” Carwood mumbled into his pillow. He nuzzled into its softness and struggled to stay awake, wondering what the point was. 

Ron seemed thoughtful. Carwood couldn’t see him, but he was lying on his back and his voice was deep and he spoke slowly, like weighing every word.

“I thought so,” Ron agreed. “Then I killed it.” 

He said it like it was some grand confession. His voice was carefully neutral and soft. When serious like this, Carwood had found it best to just wait him out, to let Ron show him what he wanted to say. 

“I was six years old and I didn’t understand much about caring for plants, so I watered the cactus too much,” Ron explained. “It rotted its roots. I killed it.”

Carwood was quiet and thought about it. He couldn’t grasp the meaning of Ron’s story. 

Thinking of death in bed tended to make Carwood anxious and chilly and he wondered if they were approaching a subject of guilt. He hoped not, it was a topic too vast and heavy to handle when he was too tired to fight off the unpleasant flashes of winter, mud and fire. 

“You were a child. You couldn’t have known,” Carwood said, an attempt at comfort.

“Yes, but you see…” Ron continued, “I thought water was good for it. I thought I was loving it. Do you think it's possible to kill with love?” 

Carwood was suddenly wide awake. He turned his head towards Ron and wished he could see him properly, to see his face and the expression on it instead of just listening to that quiet, desperate whisper of his voice. Then again, he knew that were it not for the dark, Ron wouldn’t be speaking about things like that. Carwood didn’t need to see his face, only to listen to that open, quiet little hiss of a question. 

“How do you know if your love is hurting someone when it feels so good?” Ron asked.

Carwood rolled over onto his front and crawled across the cool sheets between them. He lifted his own duvet to crawl into the chill of the room, then lifted Ron’s duvet to press into the warmth there. He kept going until they were together on one side of the bed, Carwood’s front pressed onto Ron’s side.

“I’m not a cactus,” Carwood whispered. “I need water to live.” 

Ron exhaled lightly. Carwood could imagine the not quite a smile, but a crinkling around his eyes. 

Ron opened his arms, let go of the edge of his cover and let Carwood search a better, more comfortable place next to him. It was hot under the thick duvet with the two of them, but Carwood ignored it in order to fit himself closer, pillowing his head on Ron’s chest as he wrapped an arm around his shoulder. 

“I’m speaking metaphorically,” Ron said against the top of Carwood’s head, his breath disturbing his hair. 

“I know,” Carwood said, curling tighter around him. “Still, my point stands.” 

“Succulents live on a desert,” Ron continued, “they are the way they are because they have learned to adapt to their environment. It didn’t need water, it needed sunlight and to be left alone. But I didn’t understand it, I just loved it and admired its sting, and thinking of my mother’s balcony garden thought that pouring water on it every day would make it thrive. But I was wrong.” 

Carwood lay besides Ron and breathed in the scent of his clean t-shirt. He had thrown a leg over his thighs and let his hand rest on his stomach, idly petting along the creases in the t-shirt. It was so hot under the duvet with the two of them that they were both starting to sweat, and the very faint scent of perspiration was starting to be noticeable through the fabric. Carwood didn’t mind.

“Are you really worried?” Carwood asked after a long pause.

Ron didn’t reply, but his question still hung in the air between them, its implications and potential answers looming and pushing between them even though there was no room. 

In the end, Carwood didn’t need words to read the answer from that. 

“I’m not a cactus,” he said again. 

“Not the point I’m making here,” Ron said, but the pain in his voice was impatient. “I should have learned, not think I know best and just assume and rush into things.”

Carwood had to hum a small laugh at that. He petted Ron’s stomach in a few broad strokes to soften any offence the laugh might have caused. “You always rush into things, but I like that about you,” he hummed, nuzzling his face against Ron’s chest. 

Ron huffed and gave him a squeeze, a mixture of tenderness and impatience. 

Carwood pressed his face momentarily into the firm muscle of Ron’s chest and inhaled his scent through the faintly damp cotton of his shirt. He had a distinctly strong, masculine scent, and despite being so tired and thoroughly sated, it sent a small thrill though Carwood.

“My darling,” he muttered quietly, the endearment true but almost too much still, “You make a pouring rain whenever I’m here and even that isn’t enough. You’ve never hurt me. You listen to me. I drink what you give me and I’m happy.”

He paused to listen to Ron’s breathing. It was methodical and slow, and the arm around him was steady too. Carwood was content.

“I do think you can kill somethings with love,” Carwood said then, quiet and careful, “if you are careless or selfish. But I think most things die because they are unloved. I don’t know about your cactus, but I’d rather die of too much rain than be abandoned and thrown away.”

Ron pushed him then. His arm fell away from his shoulder and he turned so that Carwood couldn’t lie on him anymore, and the arm that had held him close now shuffled him back. Lazily Carwood went, backing away from the heated cocoon of the duvet and back towards the middle of the bed, while Ron half sat up and came after him. 

“I’ll drown you,” Ron growled as he stalked after Carwood, chasing him in the middle of the bed, and Carwood rolled over back on his own side, humming through his smile, amused. 

When they were in the middle, Ron tempered down. They settled back down mirroring each other, pleasantly warm and face to face with their pillows pressed together.

Carwood reached out to idly stroke Ron’s hair, and he let himself be petted. “There’s my man,” Carwood mused, adoring.


End file.
